


Not Like This

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, Explicit Sexual Content, Multi, Stocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5396996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Athos –” he draws the syllables out, relishing them – “is gonna stay right where he is and watch you get fucked.” His other hand palms Aramis’ soaking cheek in a parody of tenderness. “Then you’re gonna stay on your knees with my come dripping into your smalls and beg his forgiveness for that stunt you just pulled, and if you can’t look him in the eye for a month then maybe you’ll actually fucking learn something.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etoiledemer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etoiledemer/gifts).



> Particular thanks to [Amistosa](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Amistosa) and [ShadowValkyrie](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowValkyrie) for their thoughts and encouragement.
> 
> What we tend to think of as 'the stocks' nowadays (restraining the head and hands) is actually a pillory. Historically, stocks [restrained the feet](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Chapeltown_Stocks.jpg), and were common to many towns and villages in Western Europe in the Middle Ages/early modern period.

At least he wasn’t wearing his brassard.

Porthos isn’t sure what it would have done to the village blacksmith to find a _Musketeer_ alone with his wife in their private chambers. As it is, the man finding what he thinks is a common soldier alone with his wife in their private chambers has been pretty bloody bad enough, from he and Athos being roused from their bed by the commotion outside and stumbling to the window to watch Aramis being dragged from a neighbouring house in nothing more than his chemise and visibly unbuttoned breeches, by a bald, red-faced and extremely angry man who’s large enough to be a match even for Porthos. Then he’s thrown to the ground – and given a vicious kick to the ribs that has Porthos starting even from inside and Athos putting a warning hand on his arm – has his boots and stockings stripped from him and his now-bare feet pushed into the stocks by two others – still sprawled out on his front, nobody even bothering to give him the dignity of a seated position –and bolted home.

And the worst part of all is the moment Aramis twists around and looks up at their window, his eyes wide and large and scared, and realises they aren’t going to get him out of this. The way his expression shutters and he turns away, hanging his head, utter defeat visible in every line of his body as the jeering starts.

Porthos doesn’t think he’s ever felt more guilty in his life – and for a moment he and Athos look at each other without a word, Porthos without a clue what to do or say.

Then the hand that’s resting on his arm gives a reassuring squeeze, and Athos instructs, “You stay with him. I’ll go alone.” He’s already turning away, picking his leathers up from the floor, and for once Porthos finds that he’s actually glad of his brother’s self-assured, _noble_ assumption of leadership, though generally it sets his teeth on edge less and less these days as he gets to know the man beneath it.

He’s glad, too, that Athos is so easily willing to take the rest of their mission entirely upon himself; that he understands without Porthos having to find the words that though he would never let a brother walk alone into danger if he could avoid it, there’s even less question of him leaving Aramis to his fate.

People die in the stocks. He’s heard the stories, and while he might not be able to get Aramis out of this just yet – not with half an angry village pelting him with rotten fruit and vegetables and God knows what else, not with their mission still outstanding – he can at least guard him, and make sure that his life isn’t at risk.

So he dresses hurriedly and rushes downstairs to the square, one hand on his sword hilt.

As he steps out of the inn into the dusk, the atmosphere in the square seems to grow even uglier, if that’s at all possible. The blacksmith sees him at once, his expression taking on a familiar sneer.

“ _You_.”

The crowd falls silent, and turns towards Porthos as one, the same hostility reflected in every face.

“Don’t you dare interfere,” the blacksmith demands, jabbing a finger at Aramis’ hunched form even as Porthos sees his brother’s back straighten with renewed interest – with the hope of rescue. “This blackguard has wronged me, and I _will_ have my justice!”

“Oh, I won’t stop you,” Porthos agrees, unable to help noticing the way all the hope slumps from Aramis once again, as he realises that he truly is to endure this. “But when you’ve had satisfaction then me and him are walking out of here, and we’ll leave you folks in peace.”

Then he steps slowly, carefully forwards, and bends down to pick up Aramis’ boots – still with his hand on his sword – and walks back to lean against the wall of the inn, position clearly saying _I’m not going anywhere._

After staring him down for a few moments the blacksmith nods tightly, before picking up what looks like a mouldy lettuce and hurling it straight at Aramis with a roar. It hits him on the back of his neck, making him jolt, leaving something brown and dripping behind as it falls to the ground.

And so it goes. For what feels like it must be hours, Porthos sits himself on a barrel and watches as Aramis is pelted with eggs and a variety of rotten produce, the former contents of the stables, and even at one point a few dead rats. He watches and dares not look away for more than a few moments, for fear he will look back and see stones in the villagers’ hands. He watches his brother being cursed and spat at and even pissed on by a taunting, jeering mob, and starts to feel less and less guilty himself, and more and more angry.

Aramis hasn’t just brought this on himself – he’s brought it on all of them; and though he’s the one on the ground covered in refuse and horse shit it’s Athos who’s in real danger right now, Athos who’s walking into an unknown situation with no-one at his back, all because Aramis had to chase after the first pretty lady he saw.

Athos, who hesitated in the doorway of their room and looked at Porthos for a moment like he might kiss him on the mouth; before seeming to come back to himself, simply saying, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The villagers have been slowly drifting away as darkness falls, as the novelty wears off, and the last of them are finally walking away; and if it’s possible then Aramis looks even more sorry with them gone, cowed and alone on the ground, surrounded by a level of filth that Porthos fully expects would turn even his hardened stomach.

Aramis twists around. “Porthos,” he croaks, voice rough and unused. “Water?”

He’d promised not to interfere, but that Porthos thinks he can do, and so he goes back inside and asks for bread and water; and though he receives nothing more than a cup, a stale crust and a suspicious glare from the mistress of the house, who’s no doubt very much regretting her previous hospitality, it will have to do.

He tries not to breathe in as he walks over and crouches down beside Aramis, kicking a few rotten fish heads away with the toe of his boot.

Aramis lifts his head – reluctantly. His face has escaped the worst of it, at least, though his eyes are red-rimmed, tear tracks clearly visible against the dirt on his skin, and Porthos decides he doesn’t want to know what that is in his hair. He kneels up to drink, flinching as he brushes his hair out of his eyes and taking the offered cup in one muddy hand, though he refuses the bread – not wanting to touch it, probably.

He doesn’t quite look at Porthos, and Porthos certainly isn’t going to make him.

He takes a long drink, and then frowns, looking back over his shoulder. “Where’s Athos?”

At _that_ , Porthos abruptly sees red.

“Where do you _think_?” he hisses, only Aramis’ disgusting condition stopping him grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. “ _He’s_ doing his damn job so that _we_ can get out of here.”

Aramis stares back at him, in guilty, horrified realisation. “I didn’t think. Porthos. I’m so sorry, I’ve fucked everything up, haven’t I?”

Porthos doesn’t quite know why – maybe he’s seen too much violence today – but the sight of Aramis so broken down and desperate wakes in him not sympathy, but instead the desire to twist the knife even further. To pick up one of those rotten cabbages, perhaps, and hit him with it – full in the face, that pretty face that apparently no woman can resist, that gets him into trouble just as regularly as the rising of the sun.

Of course, he’s immediately horrified with himself, and settles for pouring the rest of the water over Aramis’ head.

“I’m not talking to you.”

He walks back to his barrel, where he stays, and frets, ordering himself a candle and a bottle of wine from inside and drinking as he continues his vigil. He’s good at waiting, not-so-subtly disassembling and reassembling his pistol as the sun sets and the moon rises, a meagre crescent, and a gaggle of kids appear from round the back of one of the houses and tickle Aramis’ exposed feet until he’s laughing so hard he can barely breathe, until he’s wailing and begging for mercy whenever he can get the words out, shaking from laughter or shivers.

The kids are laughing as well. Porthos was one of them once upon a time, and he remembers sneaking into richer neighbourhoods and tickling anyone in the stocks as rare entertainment in a life that was otherwise harsh and unrelenting. He’s not sure how he feels about it now.

When they start talking about getting someone’s goat to come and lick Aramis’ feet he does get up and tell them all to bugger off, though it’s actually less for Aramis’ sake and more for the thought of Athos, who surely can’t be much longer.

Not when the alternative is unthinkable.

“Porthos?” Aramis’ voice is thin, and barely carries over the noise coming from the inn, where the villages who aren’t already in their beds are making merry, probably well satisfied with their evening’s sport. “ _Mon ami_ , will you talk to me now? Please?”

Porthos is still angry – but he’s weak too, as weak for Aramis’ charm as any pretty woman; and if the events of this evening haven’t taught his brother a lesson then nothing will.

He sighs, gets to his feet, and walks back over.

Aramis pushes himself up onto his knees as Porthos approaches, barely stifling a groan. Of course he’s been hours now in that one position and his muscles are probably burning something fierce.

“The worst part of it all was the children,” he says, this time meeting Porthos’ eyes straight off. “Begging them to stop.”

“Save it for Athos,” Porthos snaps, though he does lift his wine bottle to Aramis’ lips, tipping it none too carefully, making him splutter. A stray drop rolls down his chin, and he makes no move to brush it away; Porthos supposes that it doesn’t make a lot of difference at this point.

“Alright then, if you don’t want to listen – and you’ve clearly got no intention of freeing me – would you talk to me at least?”

“Fine. But if I have to stand here, I’m rinsing you down.”

Porthos had expected a protest, but Aramis just shrugs tiredly; and Porthos isn’t quite sure if it’s selfishness or pity, but as he walks to the well he sends up a half-hearted prayer to God to get Athos’ arse back here soon, so that he no longer has to look at Aramis like this.

Dumping a full pail of water over his head is at least somewhat satisfying: Aramis splutters and gasps and shakes himself like a dog, then shivers theatrically and pulls his shirt over his head, grumbling, “And this is completely ruined. It was a gift from a lady of great esteem, too, and now I bet no washerwoman will take it.

“Porthos. _Say_ something, will you?”

But all Porthos can do is stare:

Aramis is stripped to the waist, wet and filthy and trying to pretend he’s not still shivering. He’s kneeling back on his haunches surrounded by all manner of filth, his bare feel bolted firmly into the stocks behind him, and he doesn’t look at all shamed. He doesn’t even look _sorry_ , not really, and Porthos just wants to _show_ him, wants to –

“I could do anything to you like this,” Porthos says slowly – testing the words, to see if they’ll hold; Aramis’ eyes narrow and then widen, holding himself as still as prey that knows it’s been sighted. “Anything I wanted. And you couldn’t do a thing to stop me.”

He has, perhaps, gone mad.

Well, Aramis is always the one to bring it out in him.

The silence stretches out, and Porthos wonders idly if he’s just properly fucked this up – though not nearly as extensively as Aramis already has, at any rate. He’s too angry to apologise, but he’s just about ready to pretend it never happened when Aramis’ hands clench and unclench on thin air at his sides, as he lifts his chin and says, “You wouldn’t.”

Not _no_ , not _don’t_.

_You wouldn’t._

It’s – not quite a dare, Porthos decides, but definitely a challenge, which from Aramis is as good as an accord; and any good sense he might have had is rapidly dissolving with the way Aramis looks at him, somehow both defiant and unsure as he says, “Not here. It would be madness.”

And then Porthos sees him.

Athos, that is – stepping into view with as little fanfare as if he’d never been away, soundlessly taking up the position against the wall of the inn that Porthos had held scant minutes before; and as if on cue the heavens open, rain falling down on Porthos and Aramis in sheets.

They’re drenched in seconds.

Porthos’ eyes are drawn by the rhythmic banging of set after set of shutters being pulled in and bolted in place, robbing them of the windows’ light; with nothing but weak moonlight left to them, he reckons that within a minute not a single person indoors would see or hear anything beyond the falling rain.

He reaches down and drops a gloved hand to the back of Aramis’ neck, teasing the soaked whorls of hair until a full-body shiver runs down his spine.

Athos is dry where he stands beneath the awning of the inn; as Porthos watches, a thin sliver of light from the window of the inn glances off the bottle he’s raising in a silent toast, before bringing it to his lips.

And Porthos knows with that uncanny understanding the three of them sometimes share that whatever he does, Athos isn’t going to move to stop him.

He places his hands on Aramis’ shoulders and shoves him forwards into the dirt, smiling in grim satisfaction as he squawks with indignation.

“No-one’s gonna see us like this. And even if they did, they ain’t gonna lift a finger for you.” Aramis has caught himself on his hands, and though he’s glaring up at Porthos there’s a spark of interest in his eyes too, taunting Porthos, daring him on. “Probably say it’s your just desserts, getting fucked in filth like an animal.”

(It’s hardly true – they’d probably be run out of town, were anyone else fool enough to brave this downpour – but Athos is here now and Porthos no longer cares, about anything.)

“How dare you!” Aramis’ eyes flash – though he still doesn’t try and move from the position Porthos has put him in. “What are you planning on doing then, _mon ami_ ,” he jeers, the epithet an ugly thing in his mouth, “just ripping my breeches off and pushing in?”

Porthos can’t help it, he glances back towards the inn, and the figure standing there.

And this time, Aramis follows his gaze – before his head snaps up. “How long has he been there? What the fuck are you _waiting_ for?!”

And it’s that – the blithe assumption that they will swoop in and save him yet again, riding roughshod over the memory of what was destroyed when he roused them from their bed, which Porthos isn’t sure can ever be regained – and he doesn’t know, but Porthos can’t stop seeing _everything_ that was in Athos’ eyes when he paused in the doorway and he wants to _hurt_ something –

– and he reaches down and fists a hand in Aramis’ hair, bending over to _bite_ his lips before growling right in his face, “You brought this on yourself –”

“ _Porthos_.” Aramis actually sounds truly uncertain for the first time tonight, the first time in a long time, possibly even since he first came to Porthos’ bed – and the sheer vindictive _pleasure_ of it gets Porthos’ blood up. He can feel himself hardening rapidly, and palms himself through his breeches with his other hand, enjoying the way it makes Aramis’ eyes widen even further, glancing to the side and giving himself away. “Athos –”

“Don’t fucking talk about Athos!” Porthos spits, anger and arousal feeding on each other as he struggles one-handed with the buttons at his fly.

“ _Athos –”_ he draws the syllables out, relishing them – “is gonna stay right where he is and watch you get fucked.” His other hand palms Aramis’ soaking cheek in a parody of tenderness. “Then you’re gonna stay on your knees with my come dripping into your smalls and beg his forgiveness for that stunt you just pulled, and if you can’t look him in the eye for a month then maybe you’ll actually fucking learn something.”

He finally gets the laces of his braies undone enough to draw his cock out, hot and hard in his hand and immediately dripping with rain like the rest of him, palming it appreciatively as he watches the way it draws Aramis’ eyes. He moves fully opposite him, cupping his jaw in one hand and sliding his cock back and forth against Aramis’ cheek with little circles of his hips, watching his eyelids flutter despite themselves.

“Come on then, open up,” he coaxes, cockhead nudging insistently at Aramis’ firmly closed lips as Aramis stares him down; until Porthos’ hand shifts to squeeze his jaw just so and he stops fighting, letting his mouth fall open and Porthos push inside, so hot and wet and _good._

Porthos means to hold Aramis’ head and fuck his throat, hands lacing their way into his hair as he sets up an unrelenting rhythm, gaze drawn unmistakeably to Athos across the square, knowing that he is being watched in turn.

Remembering the way Athos looked at him just a few hours before, so grave and yet so hopeful, sighing out a breath of air and almost smiling before pressing his lips to Porthos’.

What will they all be to each other now?

Athos raises the bottle once again; Porthos yanks on Aramis’ hair; Aramis’ resulting moan is cut short as Porthos thrusts deep enough to cut off any sound, any breath at all.

“Go on, take it,” he grunts – and Aramis is, crazy enough to suck his cock in a rainstorm in the middle of a village that hates them, eyes scrunched shut as he arches his neck even further, giving an aborted whimper when Porthos eases his cock back only to pull his hair even harder.

He’s using him. He’s barely looked at him, his gaze locked on the figure in front of the inn, still lounging against the wall, arms folded, not moving. Remembering the way Athos asked him, eyes cutting across the still-empty bed beside them, if he didn’t _mind_ where Aramis was, mind that he had chosen someone else over Porthos – the first time he’d ever alluded to the fact that they’re more to each other even than brothers, though Porthos was fairly sure Athos had known right from the start.

And when he answered honestly that he couldn’t imagine Aramis being anyone other than who he is, Athos smiled a little wryly and said, “As I thought,” before stepping forward and pressing his lips to Porthos’, soft and dry, more a question than anything else.

And all of a sudden, Porthos realises that all his anger has drained away.

It’s not quite enough for his cock to wilt entirely – Aramis’ mouth too skilled and familiar, Athos’ eyes on them too new – but Porthos no longer wants to punish, or to use. He certainly can’t fuck Aramis like this; all he wants suddenly is to put as many leagues as possible between them and this fucking village, to lay down beside his brothers in the firelight and see what, exactly, this is.

Then Athos raises his fingers to his mouth – and Porthos understands a split second before he hears the whistle, shrill and piercing and cutting through the air between them like a shot.

His heart misses a beat; and then he’s moving, pulling his erection from Aramis’ mouth and stuffing it back in his breeches (Aramis, frozen, lets it happen), ignoring the resulting wince of discomfort – a split second before the door of the inn opens, to reveal a man Porthos thinks he recognises from earlier. He exchanges a few short words with Athos, presses something into his hand, and closes the door again with a bang.

Athos pushes himself off the wall, and strides over.

For a moment Aramis and Porthos just look at each other.

“Let’s go.” Athos starts speaking as soon as he’s in audible range, voiced raised over the noise of the rainfall, dropping into a tailor’s crouch and immediately starting to work at the padlock securing the stocks with what Porthos can now see is a bunch of keys. “Your freedom, Aramis, in exchange for us not destroying their stocks, and, I quote, ‘fucking off immediately’.”

Though he’s sure there are plenty of other things he should be doing – doing up his fly, for a start – Porthos can’t help the way his eyes linger on Athos as he wrestles with the stubborn lock. Rain is streaming from the brim of his hat, and he shows no sign of caring about what he’s seen.

When Athos finally drops the open padlock in the mud and heaves up the yoke, throwing it off with a dull thud, that finally snaps Porthos out of it. He offers Aramis his hand and pulls him to his feet, watching him suppress a wince; and when they clasp hands for a moment too long it’s Porthos who looks away first, from the sheer force of the questions in Aramis’ eyes.

They land on Athos, stepping forward at Aramis’ side. His eyes are as sure as Porthos has ever seen them; he does not have questions. He understands, then, or doesn’t care, or now is just not the time – and when Athos hands Aramis his boots before turning on his heel and walking in the direction of the stables, they do not hesitate to follow.

At the corner of the inn, though, Porthos can’t help looking back – and the last thing he sees through the near-darkness, the rain and the settling mist is Aramis’ once-white chemise, discarded beside the open stocks, in the middle of the deserted square.


	2. Chapter 2

Athos has not only come back to them alive and unharmed, he’s had the foresight to retrieve the rest of Aramis’ things – though his hat is looking suspiciously like it’s been stamped upon by a large boot, and the disappointed clucking noise he makes on realising just how much dirt is jammed into the catch of his pistol would make Porthos sympathetic on any other night. As it is, he turns away as Aramis pulls his doublet on over his bare torso, and manages to saddle up and ride out without speaking a word to either of them.

All they need is a couple of leagues’ distance, and so Porthos leads them back down the road they came in on, following Orion’s lead between the pines. There’s no question of them trying to find another settlement tonight, but he remembers well enough the location of a stream where they rested just this afternoon; and after a few false starts they find it, following along its banks until they manage to make out something of a clearing just to one side.

Porthos dismounts, tying his horse up to graze and then immediately rummaging through his saddlebags for the flint that he _knows_ is in there somewhere. The distinctive sound of striking behind him alerts him to the fact that one of his brothers has been even quicker; but when he turns he sees nothing still, just hears Athos curse softly under his breath and the flint strike a second time.

It takes him five goes for the tinder he’s found to catch even long enough for him to light a candle, and even then it last merely seconds more before guttering out in a plume of smoke. Athos’ face is eerie lit from below as he drops the useless twigs on the carpet of sodden leaves at his feet.

Porthos swears himself for good measure, pulling out a candle of his own.

“Aramis, you should wash.” Athos gets to his feet. “Porthos and I will do what we can to make a fire.”

Aramis murmurs his agreement, quietly seeing to his horse before taking himself off back towards the stream, bare-headed and back hunched.

Porthos refuses to dwell on how wretched he must feel. Instead, he sees to his and Athos’ horses and then gets down in the dirt at the base of the nearest tree, looking for anything dry.

In a strange way, the rain was a blessing. It means that in the absence of good tinder they’re kept busy scraping bark and feeling for dead branches by candlelight, and Porthos can focus on being miserable and inconvenienced and not on what’s happened, or what kinds of things they’re going to have to say to each other before the night is through.

He straightens sharply at the sound of Athos’ whistle – for the second time tonight, following the dim glow of candlelight more than the sound just beyond the other side of the clearing to his side, where he’s crouched down beside a fallen tree.

“Thank fuck,” Porthos says with feeling as he drops down beside him, reaching out and grabbing handfuls of the blessedly still-dry moss and leaves beneath.

For a few moments they work in silence; then Athos says, not looking at him, “You were punishing Aramis, I think. And he let you. But – not only that.”

Porthos tries valiantly to ignore the feeling of the bottom dropping out of his stomach, mumbling, “He felt like we’d abandoned him.”

“And so he offers himself. I can see the logic, I suppose.” Athos hesitates. “I love him as a brother – but I don’t always understand.”

Porthos, thinking of all the times he’s had to bridge the gap between the two of them, snorts. “No kidding.”

They finish building their (small, slightly smoky) fire in silence, and are onto collecting what reserve kindling they can when Porthos hears the crack and rustle of someone approaching – and turns to find Aramis, naked but for his doublet and boots, shivering, with his breeches and linens thrown over one arm.

“I couldn’t wear them,” he explains, on seeing their no doubt startled expressions. “The smell… I’ve got another chemise.”

“I’ll get blankets,” Porthos announces, already on his feet; the moment Aramis is something like dressed he’s already there, wrapping him from head to foot, manoeuvring him over to the fire.

“Sit,” he insists, pushing Aramis down flush against Athos, who immediately reaches out, and sitting himself down on Aramis’ other side, holding him close.

He doesn’t think about it. It’s the practical solution after all, none of them want him to catch cold, and if Aramis’ still-damp head flops onto Porthos’ shoulder, at least he smells thoroughly clean.

They are silent for a long time before Aramis says, voice small, “Athos – Porthos – I’m so, so sorry.”

Athos says, “You’re forgiven.”

Porthos says, “You’re still an idiot.”

“Pending completion of your punishment, of course.”

Porthos stills in shock – though Aramis doesn’t seem to notice, twisting to look at Athos and saying almost eagerly, “Of course. Anything you ask of me.”

“Do you know why Porthos was so angry?” Athos continues, as gentle as Porthos has ever heard him. His hand finds Porthos’ against Aramis’ back, takes it in his. “It wasn’t just because of the mission. Or because of the danger you were in. You also… interrupted something.”

And Porthos can’t see their faces, but he can hear from the change in Aramis’ voice that he understands, the shock and the wonderment clear in his tone as he begs, “Tell me?”

He looks from Athos to Porthos – and Porthos sees for the first time that his eyes are red-rimmed, but that his expression is one of desire and curiosity, kept firmly in check.

Porthos understands that expression. He felt himself wearing it earlier today when Athos kissed him: it’s the expression of one who’s been given the unexpected, fragile gift of Athos’ affections, and fears that it will be snatched away if he says or does anything wrong.

Porthos reaches up and pulls a damp lock of hair out of Aramis’ face.

“Athos asked if I minded,” he narrates. “That you were off with a woman instead of with me. Told him I never wanted you to be anyone other than who you are. That’s when he kissed me.”

“That’s your punishment, Aramis.” Aramis’ head snaps back towards Athos, who’s smiling that soft, wry smile again, his eyes fixed on Porthos’ face. “To wait your turn.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Aramis breathes, as Porthos twists, leaning over Aramis’ lap to take Athos’ jaw in his hands, and kisses him again, just inches from Aramis’ face.

Behind Aramis’ back, Athos’ hand squeezes his.

“We went to bed early,” Porthos says to Aramis, running his thumbs along the line of Athos’ beard, not looking away from his quietly hopeful gazes. He knows Aramis likes stories, in the telling or the hearing, that almost as much as the act of love itself he loves to come back to Porthos sparkling with memory, and touch him with clever fingers as he tells the tale. “We knew we had a few hours before nightfall and should get some rest. He just kissed me that once. Waiting to see what I’d do with it. I kissed him back, of course.”

He feels Aramis lean his weight more fully against Porthos’ side, his head against his shoulder once more. “How did you kiss him back?”

“Carefully. I still half-thought it was a moment of madness. That he’d bolt as soon as he realised what he was doing.” Between his hands, Athos huffs with amusement. “Then I put one hand on his face, like this. Kissed him deeper, walked him backwards to the bed – we didn’t have time for much more.”

“Show me? What would have happened next?”

Porthos hesitates – it’s hardly warm out here for any of them, let alone Aramis – but Athos is quicker, pulling himself gently away from Porthos’ touch. “Lie down then, I want you closest to the fire. I’ll get the other blankets.” He’s already pushing himself to his feet, and Porthos follows suit, turning Aramis round and making sure he’s fully tucked in, protected against the elements.

He would normally kiss him now. But.

Athos told him to wait his turn; and so he presses his fingers to his own lips and then to Aramis’, watching his eyes flutter shut and seeing that he understands.

“You were undressed, you said,” Aramis prompts gently – and Porthos realises what he means and strips off his linens, leaving them in a pile by Aramis’ head and helping Athos construct a bedroll suitable for two.

Porthos is the first to lie down beneath the blankets, moulding his back to Aramis’ chest as he watches Athos strip off his own leathers. The firelight flickers over skin and linen, his face in shadow, and Porthos can’t read his expression; but he’s barely beginning to fret when Aramis’ cold nose nudges the nape of his neck, and a slightly warmer hand burrows its way out of the blankets behind him to rest lightly on Porthos’ waist.

Aramis knows pleasure, and he knows _them_ – and as Athos draws the blanket back and slips beneath it into Porthos’ waiting embrace, he realises that actually he has never been so certain of anything.

Athos isn’t warm against him, not yet, but Porthos pulls him close by his shoulders anyway, knowing they’ll get there. His lips are soft and sure, his hand reaching beneath Porthos’ chemise to rest against his stomach, and they have time.

All is silent, but for the crackling of the fire and three sets of breathing, Aramis’ harsh against Porthos’ ear, Athos’ soft at first, growing louder as Porthos deepens the kiss, sliding his hand to Athos’ arse and pulling him flush against him, leaning back a little into Aramis and pulling Athos over him so his leg slots between Porthos’ and the line of his hardening cock pushes against Porthos’ own, gasping sudden, jagged into his mouth.

“Fuck, _Athos,_ ” he murmurs, as Athos’ hand pushes between their bodies to cup him through his braies, sending desire blooming hot through his body and a growl pushing up from his throat.

“I want to touch you,” Athos breathes into his mouth, his own voice steady until Porthos presses against his hard cock in turn, making his breath hitch. He’s hot and hard and curving beneath the linen, and Porthos is _fascinated,_ wants to get his braies open and learn how to touch him, watch him come apart in the firelight.

He bites Athos’ lip as he wrestles with the ties one-handed for what feels like an age, halfway considering getting his working knife and just slicing through them when the bow finally gives and he pushes the ties apart, reaching in and _finally_ wrapping his hand round Athos’ erection, making him moan low and needy against Porthos’ lips.

He can feel Athos reaching for him, struggling with his own laces – and then Aramis’ hand moves off Porthos’ hip and down to his groin, and when Athos reaches in and draws him out, if Porthos hadn’t felt Aramis’ hand cover Athos’ he’d still have known it by the way Athos’ eyes snap to Aramis’ over his shoulder.

And then Athos moves his hand; and Porthos is the one groaning aloud, as Athos lets Aramis lead him and shows him exactly how Porthos likes it, pressing deep at the base and sliding the foreskin back and forth over the head of his cock, so good that Porthos almost forgets to move his own hand.

He has no such guide, so he explores instead, keeping his touches light at first and learning the heft and shape of Athos in his hand, smearing the moisture at the tip until he bucks his hips. His eyes are glowing as they mirror with the firelight, heavy-lidded, and Porthos sets up a slow, steady stroke and swallows down every gasp he makes.

“I’m – close. I – _oh –”_ Athos surges forward and presses his lips hard against Porthos’, shuddering on a soundless gasp and spending abruptly into the hand that Porthos just has time to cup around him. Pulling back just a little he sees Athos’ face still screwed up in ecstasy as his desire recedes; and his hand, which had fallen still, renews its efforts on Porthos’ cock, until he spends with a groan and a shudder of his own not two minutes later.

For a moment they just lie there, sticky-handed and smiling at each other, until Athos brushes his lips over Porthos’ with finality and says, “We should clean up.”

“Yeah, I’ll get a rag or something,” Porthos agrees, tucking his cock back in before getting reluctantly out from under the blankets. He shudders as his skin meets the cold air, and walks quickly over to his saddlebags for something approximating a handkerchief, wiping his hand.

When he turns back, Aramis is licking Athos’ hand clean.

“You’ve let him corrupt you already, then,” he grins. “That was fast.”

Athos meets his eyes, with not a little embarrassment.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Aramis quips, deliberately meeting Porthos’ eyes as he likes a swipe across Athos’ palm. “Get back here before you catch your death, love.”

“I’m here, I’m here.” He nudges Aramis forwards into his old space and crawls under the blankets behind him, with his back to the fire. “Have you learned your lesson, then?”

He meant it lightly, but winces when it comes out a little sharper than he intended – but Aramis is generous to a fault as usual, twisting in his arms and saying very seriously, “Yes, I have. Certainly where missions are concerned, if perhaps not married women as a whole.”

“That’s all I’d ask,” Porthos agrees, pushing Aramis fully onto his back so he can lean over him and kiss him deeply, sinking into the familiarity of him for long moments before Aramis places a hand on his chest and murmurs, “I believe we’re forgetting someone.”

Porthos follows Aramis’ gaze to where Athos is lying watching them, head propped up on one hand. A smile pulls at the corners of his lips, and he asks, “May I?”

In answer, Aramis kisses him.

It’s a gentle exploration of lips that isn’t at all showy, like Aramis has always been on the few occasions they’ve taken someone else to their bed; it’s simply heartfelt, the two men Porthos loves best in the world learning to take their pleasure together, the answer to a question he hadn’t known he was asking.

Beneath the blanket, Aramis pulls his knees up; and Porthos can see in his face the moment Athos first touches his cock, eyes falling shut, mouth falling open on a moan, his other hand wrapping around Athos’ back and pulling him still closer. He’s as beautiful as he ever is in pleasure, and Porthos is torn between wanting to help, wanting to kiss the sensitive hollows of his neck or reach between his legs, and wanting to keep a little distance, and simply drink his fill.

In the end he reaches for Aramis’ hand where it’s flat against his stomach and takes it in his, kissing his temple, and watching his face as Athos touches him. He can imagine it, imagines the way Athos would touch him if it had been the two of them alone – his grip firm but slow, testing, shifting by increments to learn what makes Aramis most responsive, what makes him gasp and buck, come apart under a lover’s hands.

He’s not had a chance before, to think about what this – what any of it – might mean. When Athos kissed him all those hours ago, he kissed him back as if it was his only chance, and the moment was shattered before he’d had a chance to ask himself what Athos wanted, what it would mean for Aramis and Porthos… but in the end, it’s all so easy.

Aramis _makes_ it easy. How could he not, when he knows exactly what to say, when he gives so generously and takes so shamelessly, moaning in appreciation, starting to buck his hips – and Porthos can imagine how he’s fucking Athos’ fist, wants nothing more at this moment than to be back in Paris, in a room with a bed and a fire, so he can lay Aramis out above the blankets rather than under them and watch his cock pushing and pushing though Athos’ fist until he shudders and spends milky-white all over his fingers.

Back in the present, he watches Aramis’ eyes close, and his face go slack, hips juddering as unsteady as his breath, that familiar long drawn-out moan before he goes abruptly still, only his lips curving into a satiated smile that Porthos can’t help kissing to completion.

When he pulls away, Aramis’ expression has turned positively delighted; and then Athos is there, pressing their lips together once more.

“Right, I need to take a leak.” Aramis interrupts the moment, scrambling out from between them and shuddering dramatically as the night air cuts through his linens; and Porthos looks at Athos across the space that Aramis has left between them, reaching beneath the blanket for his hand.

“Alright?”

Athos takes it in his, and entwines their fingers.

“Yes,” he replies, “I am.”

 


End file.
